


Gambling Man

by Anyawen



Series: Gambling Man [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BAMF Irene Adler, BAMF John, Gambling, Gen, Great Hiatus, Pre-s3, Rescue Missions, canon compliant through trf
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-12
Updated: 2017-04-24
Packaged: 2018-09-23 21:56:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9680684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anyawen/pseuds/Anyawen
Summary: John didn't trust Irene, but he'd work with her if it meant saving Sherlock. He knew the stakes, and he was all in.





	1. Buy-in

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GhyllWyne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GhyllWyne/gifts), [emma221b](https://archiveofourown.org/users/emma221b/gifts), [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> This story follows immediately on the action of 'Gambit', which I posted almost a year and a half ago. I knew there was more to the story, and hoped it would let me tell it eventually. So. Welcome to 'eventually' :D If you've not read Gambit, I recommend you start there, as this fic drops you right into the middle of the conversation started there.
> 
> This chapter is also a birthday gift fic for GhyllWyne - happy birthday, Ghyll! Hope you like it!

John Watson was not a betting man. Oh, he enjoyed a game of cards, or darts, and followed rugby and footie. He never placed bets, though, no matter how attractive the stakes.

It wasn't just alcohol addiction that had killed his Da. That was the end of it, but not the beginning.

John's dad had liked a flutter on the horses, and he turned to drink when he lost, which was more often than not. The family lived at the edge of poverty, in a state of constant anxiety regarding both the condition of their finances, and the near certainty that his Da would be arriving home drunk.

He was an angry drunk. Guilty, and resentful, depressed, and bitter. Unpredictably violent. Until the day he didn't come home, having wrapped the family car around a tree on his way home from the pub, his blood alcohol level more than three times the legal limit.

No, John Watson was not a betting man. He never put up so much as a fiver on a game. He knew that way lay ruin.

But that didn't mean that John wasn't a gambling man. Not by any means. He gambled frequently, and enjoyed it. Savored the rush of calculating the risks, and then beating the odds. Enjoyed the burn of adrenaline. But he never gambled with anything as base as money.

When John Watson gambled, it was for much larger stakes. To save lives, he risked his own. He'd done it time and again in Afghanistan, and more than a few times since returning to London and falling into the orbit of a mad consulting detective. John always hoped to come out the other side alive and able to gamble again, but he went in to each situation ready to forfeit his life if required. 

The stakes involved the operation Irene proposed were a bit different. This time, he didn't quite care to come out alive if the game couldn't be won. The life he was now living wasn't worth preserving.

***

John was a muddled mess. His head was filled with doubts, his heart was filled with hurt, and the blood in his veins absolutely _sang_ with joy and excitement.

There would be anger later, he knew. But for now, the doubt didn't matter, and the hurt could be pushed aside. He stood a bit straighter, letting the calm of the battlefield fall over him. This was familiar territory. This was _home_. All that was missing was Sherlock at his side. John aimed to change that – if only so he could kill the bastard himself afterward.

They had a week, she said. At the most.

A week in which to plan and execute a rescue mission from God only knew where. And to do so without being followed, by friend or foe. Or Mycroft.

Planning took time. Far more time than the few minutes John had before he needed to be heading back to the office for afternoon appointments.

“Call in sick,” Irene said with a shrug, curling into the armchair Mrs Norton had vacated after her appointment with John.

“I can't just bugger off work at the drop of a hat, Irene.”

“I thought that was your _modus operandi_ where Sherlock was concerned,” Irene replied with a smirk, reaching for her teacup.

John couldn't argue the point, and found that he was torn between glaring at her, and grinning madly. As far as Sherlock was concerned, the Work came first, not just for the detective, but for his assistant-cum-blogger as well. John's other commitments were brushed aside, with only token protest. Because, really, Sherlock might be a bloody irritating git, but he was also _fun_. Far more fun than locum work to be sure, and, if John were honest, also more fun than his dates tended to be. Even the ones Sherlock didn't sabotage to come fetch a phone from three feet away from where the lazy git was sitting.

God, John missed him.

In the end, he rose from his seat and moved across the room, as far from where Irene sat as he could get. He turned away from her, pretending privacy even as he felt her gaze on his back. Dialing the phone, he cleared his throat a few times and tried to sag into the feeling of illness he hoped to project across the call.

The new receptionist made sympathetic noises about the nausea that he said he hoped was due to the dodgy Chinese leftovers he'd had for breakfast, rather than the stomach flu they'd been treating at the clinic all week. She agreed that she hoped his illness was the shorter-lived food poisoning, but told him to take the time he needed to be fully recovered when he returned.

“Right, I will. Give Roger a call, or Amy. They should be able to fill in.”

“I'll take care of it, John. You just get some rest and get well. When you get back I'll take you out for coffee to celebrate your return to good health.”

“Mary ...” John began, a clear demurral in his tone.

“I won't badger you when you're feeling ill, John. But I will keep asking. I hope eventually you'll say yes,” came the response.

“Yeah. Maybe,” John answered.

“Go on, then. Go take care of you. I've got you covered.”

“Thanks, Mary.”

When he turned around he caught the speculative look Irene was giving him. He refused to acknowledge it. If he had to work with her to save Sherlock, fine. He could do that. He didn't have to like it, but he could do it. Either way, he did not have to talk to her at all about his personal life or the perky blond who seemed determined to revive it, whether he wanted her to or not.

Glancing away for a minute, John drew a deep breath. He knew what the stakes were. It was time to find out what hand awaited him.

“All right, then. Deal me in.”


	2. Ante

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a slightly late birthday gift for emma221b :)

John sat in the uncomfortable wooden desk chair and watched as Irene set the teacup back in its saucer and set it down on the side table. She uncurled, sitting up and leaning forward, elbows resting on her knees, hands clasped lightly in front of her, obviously preparing to launch into the details of the trap she believed Sherlock was about to walk into.

“No, wait. Before you start in on whatever spiel you've planned, tell me this - who is he? The man you're supposedly married to? Does he know about you?” John asked. He didn't really care about the man, if he actually existed, other than to vaguely pity the poor bloke. Still, John knew that Irene was a masterful player of games, and on no side but her own. Anything he could learn about her might reveal a tell or provide an advantage.

Irene shot him a look of startled amusement.

“Oh, well done, John. You've learned a thing or two since we last met,” Irene purred. “I suppose some of his methods must have … rubbed off … on you. Are you sure you wouldn't rather ask how he survived? Or how I did?”

“When we save him, Sherlock will tell me how he did it, and _why_ ,” John growled, letting the question about Irene's husband drop. “As for how you survived, well. You've already said.”

“Have I?”

“You said he saved your life,” John replied. “Mycroft said you'd been beheaded. In Karachi, wasn't it? I assume Sherlock interfered,” he continued, reaching for his cup of tea. He was faintly surprised to find it still warm. For all that it felt like ages since 'Gloria' had come into the room and poured for them as he finished his appointment with Mrs Norton, it had only been perhaps twenty minutes.

“Very good, John. Yes, he did 'interfere' a bit.”

“And you're here now to repay the debt.”

“Let's call it returning a favor,” Irene replied archly.

“Of course. A favor.”

John tried not to bristle at the serene smile Irene gave him.

“You know,” she said, idly turning her teacup around in its saucer, “I can't answer the question of how he did it ...”

“Even if you could, I don't want to hear it from you,” John interrupted.

“... but I already told you _why_ ,” Irene continued.

John looked at her, his curiosity warring with resentment that she should be the one to expose Sherlock's reasons. That she should know them at all. He felt his expression harden when he connected the dots. He closed his eyes in pained understanding, then opened them again to meet her gaze and gave a short, sharp nod.

“You said he saved my life. Bastard probably doesn't have any idea how close they were to putting me in the ground with him. Or not _with him_ , since he wasn't there,” John muttered angrily. “Go on, then. How did appearing to walk off the roof of Bart's save my life?”

“There were snipers, John.”

“Snipers. What, a whole bunch of them? What do you call a bunch of snipers, anyway? A murder?” John asked, his tone heavy with sarcasm. “Seriously, though. Snipers. More than one is a bit overkill isn't it?”

“It would be, if you were the only target.”

John pushed himself up out of the chair and stood, staring at the teapot on the table, left hand clenching rhythmically.

“Who else?” he asked.

“I'm not sure,” Irene answered.

“ _Don't_ lie to me, Irene,” John said, his voice a low, dangerous, whisper.

“John,” she replied carefully, neither her posture nor her expression shifted, but her calm was visibly forced. “I'm not sure. I only know that there were three targets. I could guess who they were, but so can you, and with more accuracy, I've no doubt. Who else would Moriarty threaten to get Sherlock to jump?”

John didn't answer. Turning, he started pacing the length of the rug that decorated the sitting room floor. The color and pattern were reminiscent of the one in 221b. He didn't want to think about that. Couldn't think about the flat that was no longer home without Sherlock's restless energy to animate it. 

Anger was more useful than anguish. Or guilt. He turned back to Irene.

“You know this, how, exactly?” he demanded. “Have you been in touch with him?”

“I've not heard from him since Karachi. He got me away from the Taliban, gave me travel papers, and put me on a plane to Johannesburg. Hardly said more than a dozen words to me the whole time.”

“But you know about the snipers?”

“Sherlock may not talk to me, and his brother did rather co-opt my network, but I do still have contacts. A handful of very helpfully placed individuals who occasionally pass along bits of information they think I may find of interest.”

“And you found his suicide of interest? His not-suicide? You were keeping tabs on him? Or were you keeping an eye on Moriarty?”

“I won't deny that Moriarty and I did occasional business together, John, but after Sherlock unlocked my phone, all my protections were gone. I had no leverage, and no utility. I'd become a liability,” Irene replied. 

“He sold you out,” John realized.

“I certainly wasn't in Karachi by choice,” Irene agreed.

“No, I don't imagine you were.”

“It took a while to re-establish contact with those I could still trust. One of the first things I did was ask for news of Sherlock, and Moriarty. I heard about Moriarty's arrest and trial. I heard about Sherlock's run of high-profile cases. Before I could reach out, I heard about their suicides. And then about the snipers. I knew Sherlock's hand had been forced, but dead is dead, and there was no point in revealing myself if no one stood to gain from it.”

“What changed your mind?” John asked.

“A string of arrests. Dozens since Sherlock jumped. In Eastern Europe, and Asia. In the Middle East, and the United States. Anonymous tips to local law enforcement that brought down organized crime networks and caused the criminal underworld to fall to chaos. Moriarty's web, unraveled,” Irene replied. “Also, a pair of deaths.”

“Deaths?”

“Yes. Two of the most deadly assassins on Interpol's watchlist.”

“Assassins? Snipers?”

“Exactly.”

“Definitely not a coincidence.” It wasn't a question.

“Chance would be a fine thing, John. No. The destabilizing of Moriarty's network was clearly directed. As was targeting the assassins who had been hired to carry out hits on those close to Sherlock Holmes if he didn't take his own life. Or appear to.”

“And the third sniper? He's the one with the trap ready to spring, yeah?”

“Oh, John. No wonder he likes you.”

“Right. Fine. We've got a week to get into position to stop him walking into a trap. You can tell me the rest on the way. Where are we going, again?” John asked, gathering his gear.

“Ireland.”

“Let's get to it, then. You can repay favors or whatever, but I've got a score to settle.”


	3. Hedge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another writing coven birthday to celebrate means another chapter. Ayup. Happy birthday to Tiejensofgroby :)

He'd left Mrs Norton's house alone, making his way to the nearest tube stop to catch the Northern line back to his tiny beige flat in Tooting. He'd not been pleased to be leaving alone, but he'd had to agree that they stood a better chance of leaving London unobserved if they went separately. 

Irene had assured him that she would be waiting for him on the ferry leaving Pembroke later that night. John didn't have to say anything about what would happen if she weren't there. If she missed their rendezvous, she knew she should hope that Mycroft found her first.

As he sat on the tube, he thought about the logistics of leaving London. He was unconvinced that Mycroft had any interest in keeping tabs on him after his brother's death – except that Sherlock wasn't dead, and there was no way that Mycroft didn't know that. Given Irene's suggestion that Sherlock had jumped to keep John safe, it made sense to believe that Mycroft had eyes on him. Nothing so blatant as actively shadowing him, or tracking his movements via CCTV. Even John would have noticed that. Eventually.

So whatever Mycroft was doing had to be passive. A bug or a tracker of some sort, most likely.

It didn't take long for John to decide that the answer lay in his phone. Aside from his keys, it was the only thing he could be relied upon to always carry with him. That there was some sort of GPS tracker – obvious. What was less clear was whether the content of his calls and texts was being monitored. On the one hand, John doubted it. On the other hand, he'd put absolutely nothing past Mycroft.

Leaving London without alerting Mycroft was going to mean leaving his phone behind somehow. But if things went wrong, and there were countless ways that they could, he would need to contact the man. Or to have left him information on where he'd gone, with whom, and why. It might be too late for him to do anything but collect the bodies, and break the news to Harry ...

John groaned at the thought. He couldn't just disappear and leave Harry wondering if he'd been the victim of a crime. Or a suicide. She'd been worried – not without reason – in the weeks immediately following Sherlock's death, about that very thing. And she hadn't been the only one. He hadn't left his gun behind when he'd moved out of Baker Street by mistake. He imagined that it was melted down now, likely having been found by whatever minions Mycroft had assigned to deal with cleaning his brother's effects out of the flat.

Parting with the gun had been a good idea at the time. Now, although Irene assured him that she would provide a weapon for whatever confrontation waited for them in Ireland, he missed the comfort of having his familiar Sig at his disposal.

John pushed aside thoughts of guns and to focus on the problem of leaving a message for Mycroft that wouldn't tip his hand too soon. The train slowed as it approached Bank station, and John caught sight of the familiar form of Molly Hooper standing on the platform.

He was immediately aware of two things.

First - Molly was at least part of the 'how' of Sherlock's fake suicide, which meant that he had trusted her.

And second, by extension, John could trust her. There was, perhaps, no need to burden her with details, but he could give her the basics, and ask her to pass along a message if she had not heard from him in a week.

John saw the moment Molly noticed him on the train. He saw the flash of nervousness followed by the determination that had characterized their limited interactions since Sherlock's suicide. They'd bumped into each other three times on the train when their schedules happened to align. On two other occasions John had seen her but hadn't approached, guiltily avoiding twenty minutes of awkward conversation until Molly got off the train at Balham, while John continued on to Tooting Bec. He understood, now, why those brief chats had been so strained.

This one promised to be just as tense.

Molly sent him a tremulous smile that faltered just a bit when John stood and moved to the door. He tried to smile reassuringly as the doors slid open, but he knew his expression was still tight.

“Molly,” John said in greeting, extending a hand to indicate a desire to step away from the train. “How've you been?”

He saw her look away to where passengers were hurrying through the door, and the resolute way she turned back to him and gave him a stronger smile.

“Oh, hello, John,” she said, allowing him to usher her off the platform. “And, you know. Still on the right side of the grass.”

The words were barely out of her mouth when she froze in mortification, eyes darting up to him anxiously. John hated this, the way people still walked on eggshells with him, fearing that any innocent gesture or neutral word might trigger a memory and break his exterior. Hated that they might be right.

Or that they might have been, until today.

“Counts as a win,” John said with a laugh. Molly visibly relaxed, relief evident. “It's good to see you, Molly. Can I buy you a cup of coffee? Only, I've a favor to ask,” John said his tone turning serious, though his smile lingered.

“I. That is. Yes, of course. I mean,” Molly stammered, “yes to coffee. And ask for the favor and I'll. Well. I'll see? What I can do.”

“Thanks, Mol. Come on, then,” John said, leading her back up to the street.

He blinked a minute in the bright midafternoon light, and glanced up and down the street. There were no coffee shops in sight, but Molly took his arm and moved them across the street to a restaurant.

“They've got coffee here. And a decent wine list,” she explained as she opened the door.

“Whatever you want is fine,” John said as they followed the host to a table in the back.

“Must be a pretty big favor,” Molly replied.

“Bigger than some. Far smaller than others, I think.”

Molly ducked her head, briefly. She drew an audible breath, then looked back up and met John's gaze, her expression wary.

“What did you need, then, John?” she asked.

“Ah. Well. Wanted to borrow your phone, actually. Just for a minute.”

“My phone? Why?” Molly asked, already reaching into her bag to pull it out.

“Wanted to add a contact, and ask you to give him a call. In a week. Monday afternoon, maybe? And tell him to look in Ireland.”

“What should he be looking for?” she asked as she unlocked the phone and handed it to him.

“Me.”

“You? You're going to Ireland?”

“Spur of the moment thing. Called in to the clinic and told them I was sick, actually. Just, needed to get away for a bit. A week, I think. Away from everything. No internet, no phone. No distractions,” John explained as he tapped away at Molly's phone.

“Sounds … horrific, actually.”

“It does, doesn't it? But I figured I could manage a week. Which is probably all that this interfering git will let me have, anyway, before he starts nosing about after me,” John said, pushing the phone back across the table to Molly.

John watched as Molly took the phone and frowned at the information on the screen.

“Cake?” she asked, confused.

“Trust me, you don't want to have his name in your phone.”

“Oh! Is it – Um. It's his brother, isn't it?” she asked. “Right. Yes. No, I don't think I want his name in my phone,” Molly agreed, nodding. "Or his number, actually."

“You can delete it, after you call him. And you might not need to call, if I get myself sorted before Monday. If you don't hear from me, though, let him know he can find me in Ireland. Otherwise, he's likely to pester Harry, and Mrs Hudson, and Mrs Norton, looking for me and making them worry.”

“Mrs Norton?”

“A patient. Was doing a home visit this afternoon when I realised I needed some time and called in sick. Since she was the last patient I saw, they might try to question her. She's an old woman with a heart condition. I don't want him bothering her just because he can't find me.”

“But she's not the last person you talked to. I am. And the cameras ...”

“If a gorgeous woman who can't take her eyes off her phone shows up and asks you to get into a black saloon, you'll probably be treated to an in-person visit with him,” John said, nodding to the phone in Molly's hand.

Molly squeaked. John knew she'd met the elder Holmes brother at least once – the night of Irene's supposed death – and thought her reaction to the thought of a second meeting was appropriate.

“I know you're up for it, Molly, if it comes to that. After all, you had Sherlock's respect.”

“I don't – Um. Did I? Have his respect?”

“He wouldn't have trusted you if he didn't respect you,” John replied. Seeing Molly's eyes widen in alarm he tried to smile reassuringly. He wasn't going to discuss Sherlock's not-suicide, or the manner by which it was accomplished. Not now. And when he did, it would be with Sherlock, not with those he'd enlisted to help him. “At any rate,” he continued, “I think it'll be a week before his minions realise that I've skipped out and they find the courage to tell him I'm in the wind. If you call him Monday afternoon, you'll be able to give him the news before he resorts to having you brought by to enjoy his questionable hospitality.”

“And I'm to tell him that you're off working things out, in Ireland?” Molly asked.

“Something like that, yeah. If I manage to get myself sorted before that, I'll get in touch.”

“Please do, John. Call me. Any time. Let me know you're all right.”

“I will, Molly. And, thank you, for this. I know I'm putting you in a tough spot -”

He had to smile at the way Molly laughed, then worked to stifle it, aghast. They both knew this was hardly the toughest spot she'd been put in, doing a favor for a friend.

They finished their coffees and talked of other things for a few minutes before exiting the restaurant and making their way back to the Bank Station. John gave Molly a quick hug, then watched her head to the platform for the southbound Northern line train. He straightened his shoulders and turned to join the crowds moving to catch the Central line. He smiled to himself as he waited for the train that would take him, eventually, to Paddington station, and from there to Pembroke.

He'd caught a glimpse of how Sherlock had rigged the game. He'd had a brief flash of the cards, and the ways in which they'd been marked. He'd used the knowledge to his advantage, and hedged his bet. Trusting Irene was still a gamble, and nothing about the rescue mission would be without risk. But, as John boarded the train, he found himself with something of an Ace tucked quietly up his sleeve.


	4. Split

John stepped into the small cafe on the 8th floor of the ferry and felt the tension leave his shoulders when he caught sight of Irene at a table in the back. He didn't bother hoping that she hadn't noticed his reaction.

Tucking his book under his arm, John approached the counter and ordered a cup of coffee. He put his change in the tip jar and went to join Irene. 

“His name is Godfrey,” Irene said as John slid into the seat opposite her.

“Who?” John asked, setting the book down on the table. He'd picked it up at Paddington Station, waiting to board the train. A bookmark nearly two-thirds the way through attested to the fact that John had turned those pages as the train rumbled along the miles from London to Pembroke, eyes scanning the words but taking nothing in. He had no idea what the book was about.

“My husband, John. You did ask. His name is Godfrey Norton. Lovely man.”

“Didn't think you were too keen on those.”

“Men?” Irene asked. “I'm not, as a rule. There was one notable exception. Unfortunately, his attention was already fixed, and his head could not be turned.”

John thought he saw real regret in Irene's expression, along with an odd mix of amusement and envy.

“And you've decided to tell me about your lovely husband, who is not your 'exception', now, why?”

“Because you'll be meeting him in Rosslare.”

“And you'd like me to not tell him of your history as a dominatrix?”

“He knows far more about my skill set in that area than you do, John. It's why he married me,” Irene said with a laugh.

“Love at first lash, was it?”

“Who said anything about love?” Irene asked.

“Right. I'm surrounded by sociopaths.”

“You know he's not.”

“I don't know anything about Godfrey.”

“I'm sure you can infer a fair amount, John. But I wasn't talking about Godfrey. And you know it.”

John did not respond, refusing to be drawn into a discussion about Sherlock's capacity to form emotional attachments, or his apparent disinclination to do so. 

Or how that did not mesh with the fact that he had cared enough to risk his life to keep his friends safe.

John glanced at his watch. It wasn't quite half three in the morning, with just over three hours remaining in the journey to Rosslare. The cafe where he and Irene sat was sparsely populated. John imagined that most of the ferry passengers were tucked away in their cabins, snatching what rest they could get. Exhaustion dragged at him, and almost wished he could lose himself in the oblivion of sleep.

Almost.

He needed information.

The sound of Irene pushing her chair back from the table made John turn back to her.

“Not here,” she said. “It's quiet, but it's not private.”

“Where would you suggest, then?”

“We've a room upstairs. Number 42.”

“Right. Where you'll give me the answer to life, the universe, and everything.”

“Well, maybe not everything,” Irene replied, throwing away her empty cup as they exited the cafe.

John followed her to the stairs and up to deck nine. They followed the signs pointing them to the right block of rooms. Irene slid the key card into the lock and pushed the door marked '42' open and stepped inside.

It was a small room, furnished with two single beds arranged along one wall, one overhanging the other, and a single chair tucked under a tiny desk built into the opposite wall. A tiny en suite occupied the corner.

Irene commandeered the chair, pulling out and spinning it to face the room before sitting. John closed the door behind them and crossed to the bed, ducking his head – perhaps unnecessarily – as he sank down. Irene clearly felt that she had scored an advantage in their seating arrangements. John only smiled grimly.

“Tell me about the last sniper,” he said, leaning forward to brace his elbows on his knees. “And his trap.”

“His name is Sebastian Moran. Former US military. Colonel. Dishonorably discharged in 2009 after his ... extracurricular activities were exposed.”

“Fucking euphemisms,” John growled. “What was it? Rape? Murder? Torture? Call a spade a bloody spade, Irene.”

“All of the above. And then some.”

“Of course it was. No wonder Moriarty recruited him.”

“Actually, it was his sister Moriarty wanted. Sebastian was a bonus,” Irene replied.

“His sister?” John asked.

“Rosemary. CIA. Trained in espionage. Black ops.”

“So he got a spy and a sniper. Two-for-one. Excellent.”

“My sources were able to determine that the first meeting between Sebastian Moran and James Moriarty occurred at a hunting lodge in County Cork. Moran and his sister had traveled from the US to Ireland shortly after his discharge. Their itinerary included a tour of lodges offering hunting holidays across the country. They spent a few extra days at a small lodge outside of Fews that has since changed ownership, and closed.”

“I take it Sebastian was persuaded to accept Moriarty's offer of gainful employment.”

“Rosemary, too. They all left together. Two days later Sebastian checked in to another hunting lodge in France, alone. He spent a month there hunting wild boar before he popped up briefly in London, apparently en route to Thailand for big game hunting. After that, he seems to have taken a great many hunting trips, with occasional jobs interspersed.”

John lifted his hands to his mouth, running his thumb over his bottom lip as he thought. Thanks to a poaching case he knew that the hunting season in Ireland ended in January, but the French season lasted through February. And a job in London ... The timing worked.

“He was in London, in what, 2010? March? For a job at a pool.”

“So it would seem.”

“And then Moriarty brought him back to target me, again, in order to pressure Sherlock into playing his sick suicide game,” John said. “Lovely. Just fucking lovely.” He took a deep breath and scrubbed his hands through his hair. “What about her, then? Rosemary? She left with Moriarty after their meeting, then what?”

“She worked under the name Gabrielle Ashdown for the better part of a year, until she was the apparent victim of a hit and run accident that pushed her car over an embankment.”

“'Apparent victim'?” John asked.

“There was a body, and a match for the dental records,” Irene replied. “But, as you know, those are only as reliable as the record keepers.”

“Right. So she's alive, then. Doing what?”

“Hiding her tracks very well,” Irene replied. “Or she was, until about three weeks ago.”

“Begin at the beginning, Irene.”

“Sebastian Moran has always been easy enough to find, if you knew how to look for him. Interpol might want him, but not badly enough to actually catch him,” Irene explained. “Not when some of their member states occasionally employed him. That changed about four months ago, after the death of the second sniper. After that, Sebastian Moran … disappeared.”

“You think he got wise to the fact that Sherlock was hunting him?”

“I think someone did, yes. Someone with a great deal of skill in creating false identities and hiding in crowds.”

“Rosemary,” John said. “You think she found out, and hid Sebastian, and now they're working together to trap Sherlock.”

“Word is that Rosemary can be reached through a drop in the abandoned hunting lodge outside Fews that she checks every month.”

“So Sherlock thinks he'll find her there, checking for messages,” John said, nodding, then cocked his head. “But she won't be there, will she?”

“No.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because, for the first time since 'Gabrielle' died in that car crash, there has been a positive sighting of Rosemary. In London.”

“London,” John said. “Three weeks ago, she surfaced in London.”

“A … _friend_ … went in for a routine appointment for women's issues and saw her.”

“Saw her?”

“In the reception area of the clinic.”

“Rosemary was a patient?” John asked, anger rising in anticipation of a negative answer.

“No.”

“Of course not. New hire, was she? At a clinic in London. In Islington, maybe, near Angel station? Receptionist, perhaps?”

“I'm sorry, John.”

“No, you're bloody well not sorry,” John replied, fuming. He stood, the urge to pace stymied by the size of the room. He turned to face Irene. “Are you sure? You're positive it's her?”

Irene didn't answer, reaching instead to pull her phone from her pocket. She tapped the screen and scrolled a moment before handing it to John.

John took a second to marvel at how easily Irene handed him her phone before he glanced down at the image on the screen. Her coloring was different in the passport photo, but Gabrielle Ashdown – Rosemary Moran – was unquestionably Mary Morstan.

“The circumstances that led to her being identified were entirely random. Given that it was an interested party not affiliated with any government that found her, there were no flags anywhere to alert her, so I'm confident that she is unaware that she's been rumbled.”

“And when she finds out?”

“I've every confidence in you and the brothers Holmes.”

“You don't, though, do you? That's why you're doing this.”

“This?”

“Getting me out of London, and away from Mary. Rosemary,” John corrected. “It's not all about returning a favor and saving Sherlock, is it?”

“In what way is saving your life not the same as saving Sherlock's?” Irene asked. “You've already said how close you came to following him when you believed he was dead. Do you really think the reverse isn't true? More so?”

John glared at her.

“So, yes, this is to get you away from her. But, John,” Irene insisted, “it's also to save him. He thinks he's going to find Rosemary in Fews, and somehow get her to give up her brother. But it's Sebastian that'll be waiting for him.”

“When does Sherlock think she'll be there?”

“Sunday.”

“So, odds are that Sebastian is there already, setting up to spring the trap on Sherlock, who likely plans to arrive a day or two before he believes Rosemary is supposed to be there in order to scout the place to get the drop on her. That gives us three days to find Sebastian or otherwise stop him.”

“Two days,” Irene replied.

John glanced at his watch. It was past 4 in the morning. He stifled a groan. Sleep was unlikely, but there were two and a half hours before the ferry would dock at Rosslare, and until then there was little he could do. He put a foot on the platform of the lower bed, intending to swing up into the bunk, leaving the more easily accessed bed to Irene.

“Oh, John, darling, no,” she said, standing and putting a hand on his shoulder. He turned to find her smirking slightly. “I'm always on top.”

John couldn't help the amused huff that escaped him as he stepped back, letting Irene climb into the bunk. He sank into the pillows on the bed and closed his eyes.

The House had split its pair and was now playing two hands to his one. That it wasn't a legal move didn't matter – he had to beat them both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this took me longer to get posted than I'd anticipated. Sorry! There look to be two more chapters, plus a short epilogue to this story. I don't think they will take nearly this long to get written and posted, but life happens. Thank you all for sticking around to read!


	5. Skin

John heard the bathroom door shut behind Irene and rolled over onto his back. The bed was lumpy, and the décor of the room they shared was a frilly, pink assault on the eyes.

John was grateful that the mild late autumn nights made it possible to sleep comfortably under just the threadbare duvet. Or, not comfortably at all, given the identity of his bed partner.

This sleeping arrangement had been necessary for their ruse. They'd checked in as a married couple on holiday, with alleged plans to hike the trails of the Nire Valley. It had given them an excuse to wander about, getting 'lost' in the vicinity of the disused hunting lodge. There'd been no sign of movement in the abandoned building, but John had caught sight of someone moving through the trees on the other side of the property.

Someone armed with a long-barreled weapon.

They had managed to avoid detection.

The old plumbing in the walls shrieked as Irene turned on the shower. John laced his fingers behind his head and mulled over the events of the last two days, and the likely events of the next several hours.

Godfrey had met them in Rosslare, bringing them a suitcase, a worn rucksack, binoculars, a gun, and a car. He had been entirely pleasant, greeting Irene with a quick peck on the cheek and shaking John's hand. He'd engaged in small talk during their drive from Rosslare to Wexford, where he'd said he hoped the clothes he'd brought for John would fit, and boarded a train to Dublin. He clearly understood who Irene was, and who John was, and what they were doing. He just as clearly took no issue with it.

John would have been curious about the relationship between Irene and Godfrey if he'd had the mental energy to spare. The revelations of the last few days, however, had exhausted him beyond caring about the undoubtedly irregular arrangement of their marriage.

There was another subject that captivated his thoughts.

Sherlock was _alive_.

John thought he might have properly absorbed that idea by now. And about time, too, given that he was likely to see the mad bastard again in the next day.

Excitement sparked under his skin. And anger burned hot in his blood.

Sherlock would doubtless present logical arguments for having tricked him, keeping him in the dark. Compelling explanations. Rational, persuasive reasons.

John wanted to be persuaded. He had been hurt, grievously, by Sherlock's actions. But he was also alive because of them. He wanted, very badly, to be persuaded.

The shower stopped running in the bathroom. John sighed, scrubbing his hands over his face and turning back the duvet to slide out of bed. He reached down to rumple the bed behind him, creating the illusion that they'd both slept between the sheets, then crossed the room to dig fresh clothes out of the suitcase.

The jeans Godfrey had packed fit well enough to make John a bit uncomfortable. Sherlock had known his measurements. John had never wondered how. Sherlock was the most observant man he'd ever met, and had either deduced it from direct observation, or had made note of the numbers on the tags on those rare occasions when he'd done their laundry. 

Godfrey's only link to John was Irene, and John did not want to think about how she had determined his clothing sizes.

Irene opened the bathroom door and stepped out in a cloud of steam.

“All yours.”

“Ta,” John stepped around her and shut the door.

He stripped and stepped under the warm spray, his thoughts still firmly on Sherlock.

The man had jumped off the roof of Bart's to save the lives of his friends. He'd gambled with his life, willing to accept the risk that his plan would fail and his 'magic trick' would result in his very real death. He had survived, and in the twenty months since he'd jumped, Sherlock had orchestrated dozens of arrests, and two deaths. 

Now though, with just one target remaining, he'd been discovered, and his opponent had an ally. 

Sherlock didn't know it, but he had one as well, and John had no intention of letting the Morans lure Sherlock to the death he'd thus far avoided. He had a plan of his own. Irene wasn't going to like it. 

He needed a phone.

***

It had been years since John had practiced the sleight-of-hand necessary to pick a pocket. It had been something of a game he and Harry had played as teens, and there had been a time or two in Afghanistan when it'd come in handy for pranking his mates, Bill Murray most of all. Since his discharge, however, his skill at … _appropriating_ items in this manner had gotten rusty.

Still, the trick wasn't in lifting the item, but in redirecting the attention of the target.

John pocketed the stolen phone smoothly and continued on his way to the buffet table. He poured himself a glass of orange juice and contrived to spill some over the back of his hand. He mopped up the mess and made his way to the men's room. 

After quickly rinsing and drying his hands, he opened up the back of the 'borrowed' phone and pulled out the sim card. Reaching for his wallet, he pulled his sim card out and slid it into the phone. Closing the phone back up, he powered it on and waited impatiently for it to wake.

He still wasn't sure that there had been any sort of tracking device in his own phone, but Irene had been his only source of information on the trap Sherlock was walking into, and he would not risk exposing her to Mycroft. That meant ditching his phone, and any possible tracking devices it might contain.

He'd gotten rid of his own phone in Reading. 

He'd removed the memory and sim cards, tucking them into his wallet, then he'd wrapped the phone in a discarded newspaper. When the train stopped in Reading, John had stepped out onto the platform, intending to drop the newspaper-wrapped phone into a bin. But there had been a train on the other side of the platform, and he'd taken the opportunity to nip on board and leave it under a seat. 

By the time John had arrived in Pembroke, his phone was in Manchester.

The only phone John was concerned with now, however, was the one on which he was typing in a quick text. It was insurance, of a sort. In case things went badly.

Even if John managed to deal with Sebastian Moran and his trap, that still left the danger of Rosemary. If things went to plan, John would have Sherlock back, and they would work _together_ to negate that threat.

If everything went to hell, ... well. Mycroft would deal with contacting his next of kin and making any necessary arrangements, but that only took care of the personal details. It still left Rosemary at liberty to wreak havoc.

John knew that contacting Mycroft would reveal that he'd slipped away, triggering the search for him, and risking exposure for Irene. John had waited until the morning of the day they expected Sherlock and Sebastian to arrive before acquiring a phone to send a single text.

_Mary Morstan = Gabrielle Ashdown = Rosemary Moran - JW_

John hit the 'send' button, then powered the phone down and swapped the sim cards. Returning to the dining room he arranged to drop the phone into the handbag of the woman from whom he'd 'borrowed' it as he crossed to the table where Irene was eating breakfast.

“You'll need to go, now.” he snagged a croissant off of her plate as he sat down.

She looked up at him, eyes narrowing.

“What did you do?”

“Our week without big brother looking over our shoulder is going to end a little sooner than we planned,” John replied. “But you have time.”

“Time for what?”

“To drop me off and drive away. You've no skin in this game. You've repaid your favor.”

“You think I'm just going to leave you? Leave him?”

“I think you'll have to,” John said calmly. “It will take an hour or two for Mycroft to track down 'Mary Morstan' at the clinic. That will lead to the discovery that I haven't been in to work for several days. He'll start asking questions, and his minions will scramble. It'll be a day or so before they're here. By then, you'll be in the clear – if you leave now.”

John tore off a piece of the croissant and popped it into his mouth. He watched as Irene's expression shifted from a frown into a reluctant smile.

“Well played, John. How long have you been planning this?”

“Long enough.”

“I suppose you feel the need to rescue your prince single-handedly. Play the white knight.”

“We should go,” John ignored Irene's suggestive tone and pushed his chair back from the table.

They'd collected their bags and checked out of the inn, stopped briefly at the corner shop to purchase bottled water and dried fruit, and driven out toward the hunting lodge, without any further conversation. John could feel Irene's amusement giving way to concern.

“You're sure?” she asked when she pulled to the side of the road where John indicated.

“I am, yeah,” he replied. “Get out of here, and stay safe.”

“Don't you worry about me, John. Go in there and get him out.”

“I will.” He checked the clip and the safety of the Beretta Godfrey had provided, and slid it into his waistband.

“And when you get him home, you really might consider a leash ...” 

“Goodbye Irene,” John sighed, taking the rucksack containing his supplies and climbing out of the car.

He watched her drive away, then stepped into the treeline and disappeared.


	6. Limit

John glared at the pond.

A small thing, it was barely more than a dozen metres on a side, and probably only a little more than a foot deep. Hardly more than a puddle, really.

It was, however, more than sufficient to hide a gun.

John's gun.

It was possible that the gun would still be safe to use, in spite of its impromptu bath, and John might risk it – if only he could find it in the entirely opaque, muddy water.

He'd lost too much time already, dealing with the patrolling guard responsible for kicking the gun into the murky water.

John turned his glare on the guard, sitting under a nearby tree, gagged, with his arms and legs secured with duct tape. The man's expression shifted from angry to wary as John approached. John ignored him, shouldering his rucksack and picking up the man's fallen shotgun. It was far from an ideal weapon, but it would have to go.

As John turned to continue on his way through the woods to the hunting lodge he paused just long enough to grab the man's boots and toss them into the center of the pond. As insurance against the man's possible escape it hardly signified, but John took some small amount of vindictive pleasure in it anyway.

John cursed under his breath when he finally reached the clearing around the hunting lodge several minutes later. While he'd been busy with the guard, someone had arrived. Someone who did not care that an open door might attract attention. Or who had, perhaps, hoped that it would.

John moved through the trees cautiously, eyeing the windows for shadows that might hint at a sniper hidden just out of sight. The edge of a faded curtain in the top left window moved slightly. John froze, still hidden by the trees, and pulled out the binoculars.

The window was open, the sill pushed up an inch or two - just enough to catch the breeze and ruffle the curtain. Just enough to fit the barrel of a rifle for a clear shot at someone approaching up the path.

John watched the curtain shift in the breeze for several minutes, but saw no sign of anyone at the window. Dropping the binoculars back into the rucksack, he left the cover of the trees and hurried along the path.

Something on the ground caught his attention. Stooping, he picked it up and turned it over in his hand.

It was a half-disintegrated matchbook, nearly empty. The restaurant logo was nearly worn away, but John recognized it. He'd eaten there a dozen times since he'd been invalided home, always in the presence of his mad bastard of a flatmate. It had been the first place they'd eaten together, the night he'd shot the cabbie. And, John realized, it was where they'd eaten following the press conference for Ricoletti's arrest, the night before they'd been put on the case of the kidnapped kids and everything had gone to hell. 

Sherlock had been ill-tempered that night. John had chalked it up to him being sullen over the hat the Yarders had presented him, but now he thought Sherlock might have been anxious, aware that Moriarty had plans in motion. He hadn't eaten, not even picking bits from John's plate. He had, however, fiddled with a matchbook. And, apparently, he'd kept it.

Standing up, John slipped the matchbook into his pocket and studied the ground where he'd found it. Now that he was looking, there were clear signs of disturbance in the gravel of the path, and drag marks leading from it to the open door.

Sherlock had been here, had fallen, and had been dragged into the house. The window upstairs was open as though for a sniper's rifle, but there was no blood on the ground. Most likely he'd been shot with a tranquilizer of some kind, then, but why? Why lure him here to capture rather than kill him?

John moved quickly to the open door, paused to peer around the corner from the cover of the wall, and stepped inside. 

He found himself in a bare kitchen. Stripped of furniture, there was nothing to hide the trail of shuffling steps and narrow lines in the thick dust coating the warped hardwood floor.

John smiled grimly, glad he didn't have to try to clear the whole house to find where Moran had taken Sherlock. Sliding the rucksack off his shoulder, he set it down in the shadows in the corner of the room and crept toward the door on the opposite side of the room.

John crouched, laying the shotgun on the floor, before stretching out across the dusty hardwood. He inched forward until he was just able to glimpse the floor where it met the far wall. John heard a hiss of pain followed by a chuckle, and the room went blindingly bright.

When his eyes adjusted, John could make out a pair of feet shuffling awkwardly, trying to stand. As he watched those feet finally right themselves, facing the wall, another pair walked into view.

“Back with me, Sherlock? Ready to get this party started?”

John slid forward, his head barely clearing the door, and peered down into the cellar.

His hair was shorter than John had ever seen it, and bleached to a truly awful white blonde, but there was no mistaking him. John blinked rapidly against the hot ache behind his eyes. He had not known until this moment that happiness could _hurt_.

He shoved the feeling aside to take stock of the situation. Sherlock was handcuffed to a pipe near the ceiling, positioned to face the wall. A line of blood traced its way down the back of his arm, evidence of the cuffs having bitten into his flesh as he'd hung suspended from his wrists before regaining consciousness.

Behind Sherlock stood a man who must be Moran. He was a couple inches taller than Sherlock, and had at least three stone on him. It looked to be all muscle.

He had a Colt 45 tucked into the back of his trousers.

Judging by the movement of the shadows on the wall as Moran stepped closer to Sherlock, John reasoned that the light source in the cellar must be positioned under the head of the stairs.

“Party?” Sherlock repeated, slurring slightly.

John closed his eyes, his chest aching at the sound of that voice.

“Going to have a little fun, aren't we?” Moran chuckled. “Well. Fun for me.”

There was a dull thump followed by a pained grunt. John opened his eyes quickly, searching for the source of the sound.

“Oh, that was _fun_.” Moran declared, lashing out again.

John watched as Moran's fist connected with Sherlock's side, delivering a punishing blow to the ribs. He could hear the bones in his hands creaking as he clenched them in fury. 

“I don't get to do this nearly often enough,” Moran continued. “Always working from a distance. Never getting to have any fun.”

“A sniper's lot,” Sherlock agreed, swaying slightly, testing the integrity of the pipe and the handcuffs while maneuvering as far as he could away from Moran.

“Yes, well. Figured this time I could do the job a bit differently. Play with you a bit before I kill you.”

John gritted his teeth furiously as he watched Moran rain a combination of blows on Sherlock's body. Tearing his eyes away from the abuse, he eased farther forward to survey more of the room to be sure Moran didn't have any unwelcome surprises waiting.

“Play with me?” 

John could hear Sherlock trying to lace his tone with contempt. It was not sufficient to mask his anxiety.

“Until the light runs out,” Moran shrugged. “Then it's light's out for you.”

“Color and brightness of the light suggest a halogen bulb. Portable construction lamp most likely, running off of a car battery through an inverter. Given conversion losses, that's about two hours, then.”

John wanted to revel in the sound of Sherlock's rapid-fire delivery of facts and deductions. He wanted to close his eyes and bask in the fact that Sherlock was _alive_ , but given that the mad git was deducing how long Moran planned to torture him before killing him, John really didn’t have the time.

“Sounds about right,” Moran agreed, approaching to deliver another blow.

Sherlock's leg lashed out, but did not connect. Moran caught his knee, clamping his left hand around it tightly and slamming his right fist into Sherlock's thigh. Sherlock sagged in pain as the abused muscle spasmed, but caught himself as the handcuffs cut into his wrists. He choked back a noise of distress.

Moran dropped Sherlock's leg carelessly and turned away, moving toward the lamp under the stairs.

With Moran's attention momentarily elsewhere, John rose to a crouch and slipped down a handful of stairs. He froze when he saw Moran turn back to Sherlock, a length of steel pipe in his fist. Behind the man, John could now see a tray covered with an impressive array of surgical tools, a pair of pliers, and a blow torch.

The shotgun in John's hand was useless as a projectile weapon. There was no way to fire it at Moran without hitting Sherlock.

As a bludgeon, though, it held some promise.

John shifted his grip to the barrel of the shotgun and charged down the last few steps, swinging the heavy wooden stock to catch Moran's forearm.

The snap of bones breaking was lost in the bang and clatter of the metal pipe falling to the floor.

“Watson,” Moran snarled, reaching awkwardly with his left hand for the gun in his waistband.

“Moran.”

“John?” Sherlock shouted, twisting and pulling at the handcuffs. “John!” his tone was heavy with disbelief and laced with panic.

“ _Not now_ , Sherlock,” John replied tightly, forcing himself to ignore every instinct screaming for him to go to Sherlock's side, he tuned out Sherlock's continued shouting and focused on Moran.

The other man ducked his second swing with the shotgun and had now managed to pull his gun free, bringing it around.

John dropped the shotgun and threw himself forward, wrapping his right arm around Moran's left, forcing the gun down as he slammed his forehead into the other man's nose. The crack of gunfire cut through the air, and John felt something sharp and bright trace its way down the outside of his thigh. He could hear Sherlock's yelling become more frantic.

John ignored the clamor, and the burning sensation in his leg, and kept his right arm locked around Moran's left. He hooked a foot behind Moran's knee and twisted, pulling to the side, hoping to knock the bigger man off balance. Moran kept his footing but stumbled slightly, instinctively bringing his hand up to steady himself against the wall and pulling back with a grunt of pain as his broken arm buckled under the strain.

Keeping a firm hold on Moran's left wrist, John ducked under his arm and slammed his palm into the back of Moran's extended elbow, eliciting another groan of pain from the man. He kept pressure on the joint, pulling on the wrist and twisting until Moran dropped the gun, which John promptly kicked across the room. Following its progress into the shadows, he was momentarily distracted, allowing Moran to close his left hand around his throat.

John clawed at Moran's arm, then clapped his hands over the other man's ears. Moran thrust him away, and John stumbled back, tripping over the shotgun. As he fell, his hand caught the edge of the tray of torture implements and sent it tumbling down.

Moran was on him almost immediately, trying to pin him with his knees and bringing his left forearm down across John's throat. John scrambled back, hands scrabbling on the concrete floor looking for purchase to pull himself free.

His hand closed on the handle of a surgical scalpel.

He punched his hand forward, driving the blade deep into Moran's neck. The other man jerked away, tearing his own throat open on the surgically sharp edge, and leaving the scalpel clutched in John's hand. A bright red river of blood pumped through Moran's fingers in time with his frantic heartbeat, as he sought in vain to stem the flow.

John didn't have time to move out of the way before Moran slumped forward, unconscious or already dead, his weight effectively pinning John to the floor.

Sherlock's shouting was getting louder. Closer.

John looked up as Sherlock thudded to his knees next to him, roughly pushing Moran's body aside with his left hand.

“ _John_. You're really here. How are you here? Oh, you beautiful idiot. You're hurt. Are you hurt?” Sherlock paid no heed to the handcuff dangling from his wrist as he ran his left hand over John's chest, searching for injuries. “He shot you, John. Where? John, if you die, I'll kill you.”

“I missed you, too, you bloody bastard,” John dropped the scalpel and sat up. “I'm fine, Sherlock, see? It's all his blood.”

“Not all,” Sherlock found a singed hole in John's jeans. The outside of his right trouser leg was dark with blood.

“It's a flesh wound,” John replied with a grimace. “It'll hurt when the adrenaline wears off, but it's nothing serious.”

“Let me see it, John,” Sherlock demanded, gesturing at John's leg.

“Oi, what's wrong with your hand?”

“Dislocated my thumb.”

“Give it here,” John reached for Sherlock's right hand. Sherlock's thumb was bent at an awkward angle across his palm and already beginning to swell. Blood covered his hand and ran down his arm, dripping from his elbow. John hissed when he turned the hand over and saw the damage Sherlock had done ripping himself free of the handcuffs.

The skin on the back of his hand had been cut at the wrist and torn away from the muscle tissue below, leaving a flap of skin hanging loose and bleeding noticeably. 

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock.”

“Stings a bit.”

“Right. We need to get you to hospital. That's going to need surgery.”

“John, I- ”

“There is a limit to the things I'll risk, Sherlock,” John's firm tone was at odds with the gentle way he handled Sherlock's injured hand. “I will not gamble with this. With you.”

“But you'll gamble on me.”

“And win every time.”


	7. Call

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just an epilogue to go, plus a short follow-up fic. Going to try to get those both done and posted before the end of April.
> 
> All the ice lollies for J_Ballier for the use of her eyeballs on this chapter.

Sherlock was still staring at John, blinking rapidly, a stunned expression on his face. John assumed he was processing John's unshaken confidence in him. He took advantage of the moment and shifted his hold on Sherlock's injured hand. Gripping the dislocated thumb firmly, he quickly pulled and twisted the swollen digit, then pushed it backwards until he felt it pop back into position.

Sherlock yelped, pulling his hand free and holding it close to his chest and shooting a wounded look at John.

“You'll thank me later.”

Sherlock didn't dignify that with a response, simply climbing carefully back to his feet. John made note of the way he winced as the movements aggravated his bruised ribs, and the slight limp when he put his weight on his right leg.

John's own leg throbbed; as the urgency of their situation faded and adrenaline levels fell, his pain was making itself known.

He ignored it.

“Where's your phone?” he asked Sherlock.

“No idea,” Sherlock replied, moving to search the shadows under the stairs. “I assume he took it when I was unconscious. Where's yours?”

“Manchester, I think,” John answered, shifting until he could reach Moran's body.

Finding nothing in the man's back pockets, John struggled a bit to roll the body onto its back. He shoved his hand into the right front pocket, closed his fingers around the loose items he found there, and pulled them out.

“Got the key to the cuffs,” John said, picking it out from the random coins in his palm.

“Excellent. My dexterity is a bit impaired at the moment.” Sherlock said from the recess under the stairs, hidden in the shadows behind the light. “Ah,” he continued, tone aggrieved. “Found the phone. Looks like he stepped on it. On the plus side, I also found the rest of my gear.”

“Yeah?” John levered himself to his feet, keeping his weight on his left leg.

Sherlock emerged from the shadows, a pistol in his left hand, his right hand curled awkwardly against his chest holding smaller items.

“What's that, then?”

“Gun, obviously. Thumb drive with files on Sebastian and Rosemary Moran and their connection with James Moriarty. Magnifying glass. Lock picks. Packet of fags.”

“Lovely. Give me your wrist.”

Sherlock tucked the gun into his trousers at the small of his back and extended his left arm. John grasped his wrist, angling it to see as he slid the key into the lock and turned it to release the catch. He pulled the cuff open and tossed it to the floor, inspecting the torn skin that was revealed.

“I've got water and a first aid kit upstairs in my rucksack. Let's go get this cleaned and taped up and start walking to the road. We're a bit off the beaten path, but we should be able to flag someone down and borrow a phone or get a lift.”

Sherlock nodded, taking his hand back and shifting the magnifying glass, thumb drive, and lock picks from his injured hand to his pockets as he moved toward the stairs, John limping behind him.

“No, leave that,” John said as Sherlock paused to pick up the shotgun. “His gun's more useful. Over there, closer to the corner.”

John stood at the foot of the stairs, leg throbbing painfully at the thought of climbing the dozen steps. He heaved a resigned sigh and reached out to grab the handrail.

“Don't be ridiculous, John. You'll lean on me,” Sherlock said, returning to John's side and handing him Moran's gun.

“That's never going to work, Sherlock. For one thing, you're too bloody tall. And for another thing, you're hurt, too.”

“We'll lean on each other, then.” Sherlock shrugged.

“Supposed to, yeah.” John hadn't meant to let bitterness creep into his tone, but he didn't back away from it.

“You're angry.” It wasn't a question.

John clamped his mouth shut, trying to contain the rage, pain, and grief that clawed their way up his throat, demanding release. He met Sherlock's gaze evenly, and felt an odd sort of peace settle over him because Sherlock was standing there, _alive_ , able to meet his gaze. It didn't erase his anger, or his hurt, but it eased it a bit.

“I am,” he agreed. “I am angry, Sherlock. But we'll talk about it later, yeah? When we're home.”

John could see the impact the word 'home' had on Sherlock. The man had been gone for twenty months, chasing criminals around the globe, quite literally dead to his family and friends. _Alone_. And he was done, now, and he could finally go home. 

“I'll ask Mrs Hudson to remove the breakables.”

“Bastard,” John laughed. “Yeah, actually. Might be a good idea. Come on, then, you bloody giraffe. Let's get out of here.”

John shifted the gun to his left hand and motioned Sherlock closer. Once Sherlock was standing next to him, John wrapped his right arm around Sherlock's back, bringing his hand up to grasp the man's right shoulder. After a moment, he felt Sherlock's arm slide around his back, hand closing over his hip and pulling him close.

“Right, then. Ready?”

They shuffled slowly up the stairs, John hissing through his teeth a time or two as his injured leg brushed against Sherlock. He was looking forward to getting his hands on the rucksack, and the pain killers buried in the first aid kit.

Finally stepping through the door into the kitchen, John stopped short at the sight that met them.

Irene knelt on the floor, fingers laced behind her neck, head forced down by the muzzle of a gun. This was surprising enough, given that John had thought she'd be miles away by now after having dropped him off that morning. More surprising, though, was the woman standing behind Irene, holding the gun, and smiling brightly at John as he shifted slightly to try to keep between her and Sherlock.

“Hello, John.”

“Rosemary.”

“Oh, someone's been telling tales,” Mary said brightly. "Went by your flat to check on you. Brought soup and everything. But, do you know, your post hadn't been collected in four days?" she asked, then she blinked and tilted her head, and her sunny expression was replaced by a cold, reptilian blankness. When she continued, her words lacked any trace of a British accent. “Came across this one at a gas station in Waterford. On her phone at the pumps. Risky behaviour, but then, that's her style, isn't it?” She pushed the gun more firmly into Irene's head. “Drop the gun, John.”

“I don't think so,” John replied.

“You think I won't kill her?”

“I'm sure you will,” John caught Irene's gaze as she looked up through her lashes. Her expression was determined, without a hint of supplication. She clearly did not expect him to save her, and she would not beg. His lips quirked slightly and he shifted his gaze back to Mary, his right hand sliding off Sherlock's shoulder. “Makes no difference to me.”

“Makes a difference to your friend, though,” she said, indicating Sherlock with a nod, not taking her eyes off of John for a second. “Doesn't it, Sherlock? You once crossed a continent to save her from execution.”

“Yes, I did.”

“Bit less travel involved this time. Drop the gun, John.”

“John,” Sherlock's tone was low, and sure. He knew that there was no love lost between John and Irene, but he also knew that he would not let her die if he could stop it.

“Right, fine,” John said, dropping the gun. It landed inches from Sherlock's feet.

Mary smiled. It didn't reach her eyes.

“Kick it away, Sherlock, there's a good boy,” she said, her gaze shifting to the detective.

“ _Vatican cameos_!” John snapped, closing his right hand on the gun in the waistband of Sherlock's trousers as the other man dove to the side.

Mary pulled the trigger a second too late to hit Irene as she ducked and rolled away, familiar with the code phrase, and the bullet buried itself harmlessly in the wooden floor.

John thumbed the safety off as he brought the gun up, firing two shots in quick succession.

Mary staggered backwards a step as crimson bloomed around the two holes in her chest. 

John kept the gun trained on her as she looked up at him, surprised.

“No,” she protested, struggling to point her gun at John.

“No,” he agreed, and pulled the trigger again.

Mary's head whipped back, and she crumpled to the floor. 

John lowered his arm and looked around for Sherlock, who caught his gaze and nodded, stooping to pick up his crumpled packet of cigarettes and the gun John had dropped. John turned his attention to Irene.

“You all right?”

“Yes, thanks.” She plucked Mary's gun from her lax hand and rose.

John nodded and limped across the room to the corner where he'd stashed the rucksack, rummaging around in it to find the first aid kit and bottles of water.

“You told John,” Sherlock's eyes were narrowed, deducing Irene. “You contacted him – approached him directly – and told him about me. That I was alive.”

“I did,” she agreed.

“That was not without risk.”

“Yes, well, I was returning a favor,” Irene said with a genuine smile that grew into a flirty grin as she turned to face John. “And I suppose I owe you a favor now, John. My gallant champion.”

“Not yours.”

Irene glanced at Sherlock and smirked.

“You don't share well, do you?”

John cleared his throat, a tiny smile tugging at his lips.

“Ah, no, I think we're fine. Unless you've got your phone on you? We need to make a call.”

“Use hers. Rosemary's.” Sherlock interjected.

Irene nodded her agreement and crouched over Mary's body to search for the phone. John shrugged, then motioned Sherlock over and handed him packets of ibuprofen and paracetamol along with a bottle of water. When Sherlock had taken the pain killers, he handed the water back so that John could do the same.

“Here you go,” Irene said, offering John the phone.

“Ta,” he said, reaching into his pocket for his wallet. As he pulled out his sim card, he noticed that his hands were beginning to shake from the adrenaline crash. “Do you mind?” he asked, holding the card out to Irene.

She opened the phone, swapped the cards, and handed the phone back to John.

“I'll take that,” Sherlock said, extending a hand.

John looked up from scrolling through the contacts, surprised.

“You want to call your brother?”

“Not that,” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. “You go right ahead and contact the insufferable git. No, I want the sim card.”

John glanced at Irene, who gave an unrepentant shrug and put the card she'd removed from Mary's phone into Sherlock's outstretched hand.

“Right. Well. Now that's settled, I _am_ about to call the British Government, and I'm given to think that he won't be happy to see you, Irene.”

“I think the circumstances may have changed enough to inspire some … flexibility … in Big Brother, but I'd prefer not to test that hypothesis in person.”

“He will doubtless deduce your survival, and your involvement.”

“He can do that with me safely several countries away.”

“ _'Safely,'_ ” Sherlock sneered.

“You should leave now,” John interrupted. “Get some distance before the cavalry arrives.”

“Or, I could drop you somewhere? Hospital, maybe?”

“No. Far more likely you'd be detained, and we should stay to secure the scene until G2 arrives.”

“G2?” John asked.

“You've just killed two of Interpol's most wanted, and rescued an 'undercover British operative'. This is clearly not a matter for local law enforcement.”

“You've got a point,” John said, stunned to hear the facts laid out that way.

“Yes.” Sherlock turned back to Irene. “Leave. Now.”

“Always a pleasure, Sherlock. John,” Irene replied, then crossed the empty kitchen and stepped out the door.

John shook his head, clearing his thoughts, and pushed the button on the phone to connect the call. It was answered immediately.

“Your tip regarding Rosemary Moran was a surprise, Doctor Watson,” Mycroft said in greeting. “A quite welcome bit of information. However, by the time it had been verified, 'Mary Morstan' had disappeared.”

“Yeah, well. I know where she is.”

“Indeed. Is she with you? Can you speak freely?”

“She is here, in a manner of speaking.”

“Oh for God's sake, give me the phone,” Sherlock demanded, snatching it from John.

John heard a squawk of surprise from the other end of the call before Sherlock started speaking rapidly, delivering facts and insults across the line.

“Yes, she's dead. Sebastian, too. Yes. It's done. No, we're fine, well, _relatively_. Medical attention is advised. No, nothing serious. Flesh wounds. Make yourself useful, then. Yes. How long? Fine.”

John slid down the wall and sat on the dusty floor, watching Sherlock pace. He could not stop smiling. He had missed this.

“Oh,” John breathed, remembering the guard he'd left by the pond. “One to be taken into custody. Out there, couple hundred metres away.” He waved a hand to indicate the general direction. “Not going anywhere.”

Sherlock nodded and passed the information along, before scowling at Mycroft's parting words and stabbing his finger down on the screen to end the call.

“How long?” John asked.

“An hour. He's probably talking with G2 right now, but it'll take time for him to convince them that it's in their interest to assist, and more time for them and the medevac to get here.” 

Sherlock moved to sit next to John, then stopped as if suddenly unsure of his welcome. John grabbed a handful of Sherlock's trousers and tugged him down.

“An hour,” John repeated as Sherlock settled beside him, close enough that their arms were pressed together, shoulder to elbow. He could feel Sherlock leaning in to the contact. “Then we deal with this mess and get ourselves sorted, and we go home.”

“Home.”

The word was filled with a longing that made John's heart ache. He wasn't the only one who had missed their life together in Baker Street. He bumped Sherlock's shoulder.

“Yeah, home. He tried to take it away from you, to take _you_ away from _us_. He failed, Sherlock, and you're ours again. Time to come back. Come home.”

John heard the hitch in Sherlock's breathing.

“Thank you.”

“Yeah. Anytime. But never again, if it's all the same to you.”

“No,” Sherlock agreed, shaking a cigarette out of the battered packet and putting it to his lips.

John sighed and leaned his head against the wall, ignoring Sherlock as the other man searched his pockets, muttering under his breath. After a minute, John reached into his pocket and withdrew the tattered matchbook he'd found outside. The one bearing the logo of the restaurant where they'd eaten their first meal together, and their last – to date. The one Sherlock had kept, for reasons John knew were sentimental, even if Sherlock would never admit it. 

He turned the worn item over in his fingers, saying nothing, until Sherlock's attention was caught and fixed on it. John opened the matchbook, counted the remaining matches – four – closed the cover, and slipped it back into his pocket.

“John,” Sherlock protested.

“You're coming home, Sherlock. Best start quitting now.

“Tyrant,” Sherlock groaned.

“Problem?”

“Not at all.”

John glanced at Sherlock and had to laugh at the cocky expression on the other man's face. Sherlock's low chuckle joined in, and they sat against the wall in the dusty kitchen and filled the room with laughter.

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to emma221b and J_Baillier for letting me pick their brains for medical things, and 7percentsolution for eyeballs on the drafts :)


End file.
